


Belief Is the First Step

by captaintinymite (augopher)



Series: Belief is a Two Way Street [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canon Compliant, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, POV Sheriff Stilinski, Season/Series 05, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John, Stiles Feels, Stiles Has Panic Attacks, Stilinski Family Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-22
Updated: 2015-07-22
Packaged: 2018-04-10 17:22:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4400732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/augopher/pseuds/captaintinymite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a long night at work, Sheriff comes home to look through case files and learns just how badly the past couple days have gone for Stiles. </p><p> </p><p>Sequel to "Your Move, Dad," in which Sheriff Stilinski is trying to make amends with his son over his unintentionally hurtful comments.<br/>Contains spoilers for episode 5 from season 5.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Belief Is the First Step

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to the wonderfully encouraging comments on the first part of the series, I was inspired to write a sequel.
> 
> Trigger Warning: Detailed depiction of a panic attack.

Sheriff Stilinski lifted the file box from the trunk of his squad car and shut the trunk. It had been a long shift, a long fourteen hour shift, and somewhere in the middle of it Parrish had disappeared...again. Whatever he’d deal with that later. The point was, he had another couple hours of work still left before he could head to bed. This job was gonna put him into an early grave, or more accurately, the supernatural shit that plagued the town would put him there, but it was more or less the same thing. He had a job to do, and protecting the town from danger did not discriminate between human perpetrators or otherwise.

The door into the house from the garage was locked, and while that was a bit unusual, it was pretty understandable given the uptick in homicidal teenage supernatural creatures lately. The box hit the table with a thud, echoing throughout the empty dining room. When his eyes fell on the front door, the sight of it, however, was more than a little out of the ordinary. In addition to the lock and deadbolt, someone--presumably his son--had added not only a chain but two additional slide locks like the kind found on hotel doors. Now, it was one thing to be cautious, but this was a new level, even for Stiles.

He paused though, remembering Donovan’s threats and the way Stiles had taunted the guy afterwards, playing it off as though he didn’t believe the words were credible. Apparently, he’d been more worried than his demeanor had let on. Still, John didn’t hear his son moving around upstairs, and assumed he was asleep. If he could sleep, then Stiles could not be too worried. The boy had always been that way, even before his mother died.

Soon, the dining room table was covered in paperwork, crime scene photos and case files. A small old-fashioned glass held a shot of whiskey over ice, and the only light came from the lamp hanging overhead. He rubbed his temples. This case was going nowhere, and would continue to head in that direction if someone didn’t quit stealing the bodies. Though he only knew of two, he suspected there were others they hadn’t discovered yet. Plus, there was that glowstick werewolf thing Parrish had seen, though John had to admit, he was loath to believe anything he didn’t see with his own eyes.

And maybe that was the problem.

His lack of faith in the supernatural had driven a wedge between him and Stiles, and though the fault lie on both their shoulders, he still felt more to blame. Stiles’ attempts, albeit misguided and unnecessary attempts, to protect him by keeping him in the dark about all of it had been well intentioned. He understood where his son had been coming from. Stiles was young; he’d already lost one parent. He didn’t want to lose his dad too, and John...had refused to believe him, even when he was pleading with him to listen, to be safe.

John took a sip of his whiskey and rested his head on clasped hands. God, he wished Stiles had spoken up about how his words--many said in jest--had hurt him. That was never his intention. He and Stiles both had a biting sense of humor, and sometimes they could be a bit harsh. Though they’d said little since that night John found him in the cemetery last week, he was trying. Honestly, he was, but this stupid thing with these...what had his son called them? Kanimas?

No, wait. That was what Tracey was. Cannibals? No...that was the Walcott family from that whole Benefactor debacle had been. What the- chimeras. Yeah, that was it.

He just did not know what to do. He’d apologized, tried to talk to him, but John suspected this was  not a problem that could be solved with words. And...he was lost, floundering for a way to fix things.

With a shout of frustration, he shoved the box of files off the table where it hit the carpet with a muffled thud, papers and folders scattering everywhere. When the moment had worn off, he winced, realizing he’d probably just woken up Stiles, and the sound of his son shuffling around upstairs confirmed his suspicion. A minute or two later, he heard him descending the stairs, each step creaking under his weight.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you. It’s just this case-” He stopped when Stiles came to stand beside him, fidgeting as he stood but unusually quiet. When had the boy caught up to him in height? John sighed. He'd missed a lot lately, he supposed.

He watched him glance at the table, chewing on his thumbnail. John recognized his tell immediately. “Don’t get worked up over this, Son. We will be okay. We’ll catch whoever is turning these kids into supernatural Frankenstein’s.”

“Frankenstein’s monster,” Stiles said back in a robotic voice. “Frankenstein was the one responsible, his mo-”

Stiles stopped abruptly, body going unnaturally still next to him. When John turned to face him, he took in the complete change in his son's demeanor: Eyes red-rimmed and wide, a slight tremor in his hands, the quiver in his lip, chest heaving and stuttering with each breath. Mere seconds had passed, and as Stiles began to fall apart next to him, John stood there frozen, watching it unfold.

After a beat, John managed to break from his stupor and follow Stiles’ gaze to the table where it stared with unblinking eyes at Donovan’s mug shot. Of course. That was what had turned his son into a ball of anxiety. “We will find him and get him back behind bars. I will be fine.”

Stiles muttered something he did not quite catch, but whatever he’d said didn’t matter when John watched him start clawing at his scalp.

Once, when John had sat in on one of his son’s therapy sessions after his mom died, he’d listened to him describe how a panic attack felt, how it felt like his chest was being crushed, and hundreds of needles were trying to force themselves out from beneath his skin. He’s said it felt like he wanted to claw his face off...no wait, like he had to claw his skin off.

“Stiles, you’re gonna be okay.” John hadn’t been around to witness one of these for a long while, and he tried to remember what he was supposed to do to help. He reached out to place a comforting hand on his son’s shoulder, but Stiles wrenched out of his grasp with a wince and an audible hiss. “I’m sorry. I didn’t-”

Stiles kept pawing at where John’s hand had been as though he’d injured him.

“I’m sorry if I hurt you. Tell me how to help you. What do you need me to do?”

“I...I…” Stiles massaged his shoulder.

“Did one of these chimeras-” At those words, Stiles sank to the floor in a crumpled heap, and John, joining him on the floor, used the opportunity to check his son’s shoulder. "Stiles, there’s nothing there.”

“No, no, no, no, no, no…” He stared down at his hands and rubbed at them frantically as though they were in pain. All the while, he kept mumbling under his breath something John wished he desperately  could understand.

“Stiles, whatever it is, you can tell me.” Fear, John knew, could often be irrational, but there was no way a reaction this visceral was unfounded. Something tangible had sent Stiles into a spiral of fear. But what?

Stiles fought for air, fat tears streaming down his face. “I had to. I had to.” He pressed a fist to his mouth. “I had to, I had to, I had to.” He sucked in a sharp breath with a sob. “It was real.” Once more Stiles rubbed at his hands. Then, he said something that sounded a lot like ‘Corpus delicti.’

Realization finally dawned on John. Stiles’ hands did not hurt. He was trying to scrub them clean.

“I’m not bad. I’m not bad.” He kept repeating those words over and over through his tears. “I had to.” His breathing had begun to turn fast and shallow.

“You need to try and take deep breaths. Watch me. Look. Inhale.” John counted to eight aloud. “Now let it out.” He counted to eight again and continued until he could see Stiles starting to calm, not by much, but it was a start.

“I didn’t- I just wanted...I’m not bad.”

“I'm not saying you are. What happened?”

“No one will believe me. They never believe me.” He fisted his hands in his hair, tugging on it. “No one listens to me. No one listens. No one listens. Nobody believes me.”

John pulled Stiles’ hands away from his head, and held his wrists. “Son, I know I’ve screwed up, and I'm sorry. God, how I'm sorry, but whatever it is, this time, I promise I will listen.”

Stiles stared at him, and with his brown eyes wide in fear, John could swear he was looking at him, seeing an eight-year-old boy again instead of the eighteen year old he was now. “I didn’t even see him until he attacked me. Donovan, he had this mouth on his hand.”

“A mouth on his-”

“How does a man with no mouth talk, Dad? But he bit me.”

“Stiles, there is no wound on your shoulder.”

“I...I…”

John could see his anxiety rising again.

“It still hurts. I know he bit me!”

“It’s okay. Go on.”

“I just wanted to get away from him, and I hid in the library, but he got in. I don’t know how; he shouldn’t have had a key card. I don’t know what I was thinking when I tried to climb the scaffolding, but grabbed hold of my legs. Said he was going to eat them. I couldn’t kick him off me, but I could reach the pin holding one shelf up. So I pulled it. I didn’t mean to ki- I’m not bad." He screwed his eyes shut and paused, trying to collect himself, to no avail. "I tried to call 9-1-1, but I couldn’t get any words out. I froze, and then I thought, well if he was supernatural, maybe he’d heal and come after me again. I panicked. So I ran, but I was too shaken up to drive. Then that deputy showed up, and the body was gone. But it was real. It happened. I know it happened. I ki- I killed him, Dad.” He took a deep shuddering breath and curled into his father’s chest, sobbing while he clutched at his shirt.

John rubbed his back in soothing circles. “Shhh. It’s okay; you’re gonna be okay.”

“I tried talking to Scott, but he said we’re not supposed to kill those we’re trying save. But...where was anyone trying to save _me_?”

He sighed. “Scott’s wrong, Stiles. Sometimes...you have no choice. Donovan had a choice, and he chose to attack you. I don’t care what Scott told you, I’m thankful you did what you had to. I know you’re hurting right now, but you’re still here, because you fought him off. It's called self-defense for a reason. You’re gonna be okay.” He kissed the top of Stiles’ head.

“But...there’s no body. If there's no body, who is gonna believe me?”

John held his son tighter. “I do. I believe you.”

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Come visit me on [tumblr](http://www.captaintinymite.tumblr.com). I like to make new friends


End file.
